


Bourbon Straight

by Patronoftheravens



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Don't be like Furia kids, Drinking, Furia is bad with feelings, M/M, Nyx is mentioned, Repressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronoftheravens/pseuds/Patronoftheravens
Summary: There's only one thing that can numb the new fondness Furia feels in his chest.





	Bourbon Straight

**Author's Note:**

> Got bored so I wrote a thing. Comments are very helpful if you'd like to see more.

He downs the shot without so much as a shudder. It’s strong stuff, some herbal spirit or whatever. He doesn’t care. It’s strong enough for him to forget the fluttering in his chest and the warm glow of a caress to his face that was more than a fleeting touch meant to arouse. It lit up his chest in the way the dawn rays split the fog and set it dewing upon the grass and windows. Furia hates it. He waves the bartender over, tosses a few more gil at him and downs the next shot. It burns on the way down. His throat’s almost numb to it and he wishes his chest was too. Wishes that the bite of the herbal would soak from his stomach to every part of him and freeze the warmth from him.   
It doesn’t. He orders another, stacks the empty glass atop the others. He can’t hear the idle bar chatter anymore, but that’s not because of the drink. He sits for just long enough for some hammered twenty-something with a dress that stank of money to ask him if the carpet matched the drapes. He’d normally lose his temper but through the dew in his heart and the fog in his head he barely registers it. He manages a rude gesture to her and stands abruptly. He needs a smoke.   
He pats his pockets. Nothing. A bitten swear slurs more than he thinks it would through his teeth. That’s his sign to head home. Another few gil for the bartender, a tip for putting up with him, and he pulls on his coat, barely managing to actually walk out the door.  
The frigid wind outside sobers him enough to put one foot in front of the other but it also sobers him enough to think of him again and the warmth he twists in his chest. It’s not unfamiliar. He knows what it is. Felt it once or twice before but shoved it down, bottled it up and let it turn black and bitter with age.   
By the time he reaches his apartment, he’s sober enough to take the stairs. He could take the elevator, it probably would be the safer choice with how he’s walking, but doesn’t want that extra space for introspection. His boots are heavy on the steps, and the additional focus of having to walk instead of fall up them keeps his thoughts from him.   
Out of anyone it could be, why did it have to be Nyx fucking Ulric?   
As he opens his door, he tries not to think about his lips on his. The tongue across the scar in his face was cheeky but aside from that his mouth had been soft, supple, warm at first. Furia hadn’t expected it. Didn’t want to have that damn warmth in his chest, not heat. Heat he’d be fine with. That was to be expected. Nyx was hot, gorgeous even (that’s too affectionate), and a good lay too but this damn warmth that stuck behind his sternum wasn’t what he’d expected at all.   
He sheds his jacket and tosses it over the couch, pulls open a drawer, roots around for cigarettes. He finds a pack, almost empty, a reminder that it’s not exactly a habit and more of a crutch when he can’t swallow his pride and kneel. He takes the pack and opens the window. It’s a fairly large window for a shoddy apartment, big enough for him to lean through and rest his elbows on the sill. He doesn’t know where a lighter is, doesn’t give enough of a damn to go find one and lights it with a short spark of his “borrowed” magic. He doesn’t need it. He’s good enough without it. But Ulric? No way he’d get by without it.   
He only tells himself that to try and douse that damn fond flame flickering between his ribs.   
He takes a slow drag from the cigarette, trying to get the hot smoke to purge any warmth in his chest then pauses with it balanced between his fingers. He’s not nearly drunk enough for this.   
He puts the cigarette between his teeth and pulls himself back inside, wrapping his fingers around the neck of a bottle of cheap bourbon. For a moment, he considers getting a glass then realizes that no one would give a damn if he just downed the rest of it. There’s not much in there anyway. Damn anyone’s judgement. They’re no better. Besides, he doesn’t need to add another dish to the growing stack in the sink.   
It takes about an hour and three cigarettes to finish off the bourbon. By that time, he’s only holding himself up by his elbows and an iron will. As he pulls himself from the window, the bottle falls from his hand and shatters on the counter. He ignores it, ignores the glass that digs into his hand and pulls bloody streaks open. He’s too drunk and too damn pissed to care.   
He doesn’t make it to the bed, barely makes it to the couch and doesn’t fall asleep, maybe passes out is a better term.   
In the morning, the jackhammer on the inside of his skull distracts him from any tender feelings he had.


End file.
